Night Watch
by hallowgirlfrommars
Summary: The night Katniss is trapped in the tree, Cato watches Clove sleep beside him and reflects on the twisted feelings he has for her. Part one of two-one from Cato's POV and one from Clove's. Clato, partly inspired by the hints in the book that both the characters might actually not be sane. Review, please.


**Hiya! Just a short story about the relationship between Clove and Cato! It's from Cato's point of view and takes place the night the Careers have Katniss trapped in the tree. Just Cato's thoughts as he watches Clove sleep. It's Clato so it is a bit twisted-they're the Careers, after all.**

**Please review if you enjoy! Tragically do not own Hunger Games or any of its' characters!**

She is sleeping now. Her dark hair caresses the leaves beneath her like the softest brush of a knife, and her hand is clenched tight, untrusting even in rest. She lies still, tense, oblivious, guard not lowered but slightly softened.

He watches her.

She has impressed him; this young girl from his district. The one who whirls and slices and stabs with such ferocity that her trainers flinch at the sight of her. The one whose reputation at home was such that her own parents would cower from her.

This girl, who wants what he wants. But will never get it.

He will make sure of that.

He has never questioned this; he has always known it. He will kill her. At his hands, she will die.

They are trying to transform the Games this year; trying to interlink them with pathetic declarations of love. The boy from 12, confessing undying affection for his district partner. Oh, how Cato's stomach had turned when he heard the words; oh, how his face had contorted in a hideous laugh. Love-did they think that would save them from him? Did they think that would persuade him to spare them?

On the contrary...

He sighs, as his eyes flutter closed and his mind fills with weaving pictures of how it will happen. The girl from District 12...the girl they're holding in the trees right now.. the Girl Who Was On Fire...that's what they've nicknamed her...

_Girls on fire burn themselves out._

That's his first thought, his first image, his first laugh, before he smiles and shakes his head quietly in the darkness. She won't burn herself out. Oh no. Much too simple.

And we can't have that.

He imagines how it will be. The girl's neck in his hands. One quick twist and that pretty little bone will snap like a twig; one yank and she'll be helpless in his arms, as he throws her body to the floor, grotesquely twisted from the injuries. But no...that is too quick...much too quick...

And what enjoyment comes from quick?

His sword sinking into her..her shriek of agony as her body is punctured like a pathetic balloon...her screams, curdles, gasps of torment as he stabs again and again, choosing his spots with relish before finally allowing the gift of her death. But not until she's begged for mercy.

Oh no.

Because he always makes them beg for mercy.

And that won't be the only thing. Wouldn't it be a kindness to find her boyfriend for her? Wouldn't it be wonderful to give them a little reunion?

Wouldn't it be beautiful to pull a sword across that girl's body again and again...and make her lost little lover watch?

And that brings Cato back to the little girl next to him. Not so little, really..old enough to know this...great enough to love this.. Because he has seen her face as they watch the tapes, seen her eyes widen as she shivers with joy, watched how her tongue creeps out and licks slowly across her lips as though tasting victory. As though tasting death.

As though savouring the other one's pain.

And he has loved it. Funny...he never really loves...not people...

But her, she is an exception. He loves to watch her love. Watch her love violence, death, blood...watch her entire being quiver with anticipation as she waits for that final, sweet moment, when the light fades from a tribute's eyes and they cease to be the obstacle they are to her victory. And the thrill it sends through him is like nothing he's ever experienced before, something that sets his blood on fire, his tongue licking frantically in his mouth, his eyes wide and grinning, hoping desperately for a droplet of madness.

She...why does he watch her..her name..Clove..

She shifts in her sleep, keeps her hand clenched around her knife handle, her eyes lost in dreams. He watches. Her black waves brush her cheek; even asleep, her face seems strangely twisted, waiting, desperate for blood. And that just makes him long to stroke it even more.

This little girl...could she be an obstacle...

Love doesn't help in the arena. And love is not what he feels. He delights in the notion. Love; a sure recipe for death. An imagination, an illusion, concocted so weaklings don't have to feel alone in the world. As though alone was not the best thing you could be.

No, he does not feel love. He could kill this girl. This tribute. He could use his sword to slit her throat right now.

He could kill all of these people. The people who sleep around him, as though sure of their safety, at least for one more night. He could stand up, move around the circle and kill. He could.

But he'd want her to be there.

The thought snakes into his head, before he can stop it. He tries to untangle it, push it out, but he cannot. Forming attachments is pitiful. It is pathetic.

But Cato would want Clove to be there.

She would want to watch, he knows it. She would want to gasp at his side, dance forward and draw out a knife, slowly, softly, savouring the moment. She would want to creep to the side of the sleeping girl nearby, smile down at her, lower her lips so close to her skin, they almost brushed..

And then she would slice, and that girl's head would be half off her shoulder, pulsing blood flowing down her clothes, barely missing Clove's lips as she stood, her whole being electric with the vision before her, alive, alive, alive...

How she would love it.

How he would love to watch.

And it is that that makes him smile.

He could do it now, but he won't. Not yet. He will wait.

Wait until they are all alone.

Wait until it is just the two of them.

The two of them against victory.

And then he will strike.

And for a second, he allows himself to imagine how it will feel; her blood spilling over his flesh, each stroke of life leaving her body helpless and weak; how it will feel to watch her lying dead in his hands and revel in the sheer glory of knowing that he did this.

Yes, he will wait.

And not for much longer.

He bends down, letting his lips brush the skin softly at the side of her head. She could kill him now, if she awoke. She could kill at once.

And it is precisely that which makes the prospect so inviting.

She doesn't wake. He watches her, to see if she has moved. See if she is pretending, see if she knows he is there...knows his thoughts..

She doesn't move.

For the briefest of seconds, the slightest glimpse of a smile pulls at the corner of Cato's mouth. She doesn't wake..she doesn't wake...

And he bends down and whispers it. Three words. Three words that she will never hear.  
Three words that she might never guess.

He leans back and smiles.

_I'll kill you._

The closest he'll ever come to anything for this girl.

He steals one last look at her lying there beside him. Then he leans back, props himself up against a log and waits, with growing anticipation, for the dawn.

**Hope you enjoyed it, please review!**


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